


Deltiology

by kyrilu



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Epistolary, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, One-Sided Relationship, Postcards, Suicidal Thoughts, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then there was Hong Kong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deltiology

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm...I don't know exactly what this is, but I credit lifelinelimit (Em! <3) for giving me the idea.
> 
> EDIT: Chinese translation by middayxiansheng available [here](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=78366). :)

**one.**

[A postcard from Madrid, highlighting a glowing yellow building in the night: the Madrid Post Office.]

Dear James,

Do you miss her?

 

**two.**

[Another postcard from Madrid. This time of the three sprawling sides of the Plaza Mayor.]

Dear James,

I have a scar on my back. The knife wound didn’t heal over; it is, in fact, quite red. Don’t worry, my dear, it doesn’t hurt.

She gave me so many scars. You gave me one. I wonder why you think yourself so dangerous. Somedays I think I should go to you and finish what I started. Carve a lovely scar onto your thighs. Or perhaps your back, if you believe in reciprocation.

 

**three.**

[The third postcard is not from Madrid this time, but the Canary Islands. From Gran Canaria, with sand standing stark white by the sea.]

Dear James,

Apologies for the morbidity of the last postcard, my dear. Perhaps I should describe the beaches here instead. I’m recuperating, as I imagine you are doing as well, except in dull old England. The drinks are wonderful. The locals and tourists are stunning.

You can join me if you like. Although you don’t need to fake your death for this one; I’m sure MI6 will understand. I’ll mix a martini for you. ‘Shaken, not stirred.’ Is that right?

 

**four.**

[Barcelona, now. Pointed towers arising from an incomplete basilica. This is a postcard of the Sagrada Família.]

Dear James,

I saw your little present. Two decently trained agents, but not double-Os. You didn’t come yourself -- what a pity, a perfectly good drink going to waste. Has MI6 decided that I’m not worth your time? My dear, just because I do not pose a major threat to England at the moment does not mean I’m not worth it.

I still do work, sometimes, I will admit. The world goes on, James. Business to be done, even if during a time of healing. Don’t worry your pretty little head, however. Not really your line of work -- it’s more the cyber frontier, hacking.

Maybe I’ll return to London, eventually. I want to see her grave. How was the funeral? Did you speak? Did they honour her? Did they remember her sins?

Do you miss her?

 

**five.**

[A bridge suspended high across the blue sky, branching out white. Assut de l’Or, in Valencia.]

Dear James,

I saw footage of you in Sweden. It’s nice to be keeping an eye on you. Looks like you’re falling back into the usual crude routine of missions, alcohol, and sex again. Which is to be expected, although I’m disappointed that you haven’t been chasing me.

Think of me the next time round, James. Down a drink, kill an enemy, fuck a one-night stand for me, yes?

You looked so sharp in that suit -- did someone pick it out for you? It’s tailored perfectly. And that tie matched your eyes.

I think I miss her. I didn’t kill her by my own hand, as I’ve dreamt. She simply died amid the middle of things, James, and it’s such a death unworthy of her.

 

**six.**

[This postcard -- of the freewheeling structure that is the London Eye -- is the only one not addressed to James Bond. It is left before a grave, under a bouquet of roses. There is a handwritten poem on the card. The roses obscure on the name and date on the grave, so that it only reads _M._ ]

> _mi reina, mi mujer, mi extensión, geografía,_
> 
> _beso de barro, cítara que cubren los carbones,_
> 
> _tú, vestidura de mi porfiado canto_

I know you liked the bits of Neruda I left on your desk. You threw them away, but you still smiled over your tea after reading. For it’s much better than your husband’s dreary Tennyson.

How is hell like, Mummy? Fires, heat, pits, all that rubbish?

England is cold and grey.

Love,

T.R.

 

**seven.**

[The seventh postcard depicts a former railway station, directed at the face of a clock. Musée d'Orsay. Paris.]

Dear James,

Following your footsteps, my dear. You leave such destruction in your wake.

 

**eight.**

[The eighth postcard is of the Musée d'Orsay again, but indoors, a photograph of the curving roof.]

> _Hay algo más triste en el mundo_
> 
> _Que un tren inmóvil en la lluvia?_

Lost another one, James.

 

**nine.**

[A postcard of the Eiffel Tower. Could’ve been like any other standard postcard, but when you hold it to the light, it glows.]

Dear James,

I gather you found my hotel. My poor guards didn’t see you coming. But I’m not stupid, as you should realise. I have found another roof to stay under in the meanwhile. Paris is a lovely city, and I have my contacts.

So much anger, Mr. Bond. Again, I saw the footage. What makes you angry, James? My dismissal of your precious one-night stand? (Whose death was your own causing, really; you intervened too much on part of his Corsican clan ties.) My past mentions of our beloved M?

Did MI6 tell you about the roses?

 

**ten.**

[Another HTL postcard, but of the Centre Georges Pompidou, a skeleton of tubes and pipes, shining dully.]

Dear James,

Somedays I wish I could leave you with a proper address, so that you could actually reply. But I don’t quite think that letter-writing is your style, unfortunately. So here we are: unanswered postcards, ramblings from the mind of Raoul Silva. I do hope that you find this whole thing diverting, my dear. I also hope that the quotation of Neruda has brought some culture into your life, at least.

Wish you were here, as the saying goes. I have sangria to spare, although French wine, for all its supposed merits, makes a piss-poor substitution.

 

**eleven.**

[A fortress set against a wide blue skyline. Edinburgh Castle, Scotland..]

Dear James,

I suppose you lived in this country, once. Always the weepy origin stories from MI6’s agents. M was an orphan herself, after all; I bet you’ve found her file, but you never dug deep enough.

Can I tell you about her? She was beautiful, James, and I was her favourite. She liked it when I tried to impress her; she liked the poetry I showed her; she read the postcards that I sent her. Even if she seemed properly professional, keeping up a front -- she was fond, my dear, and I was hers.

Of course, then there was Hong Kong. There is always that: ‘then there was Hong Kong.’

But I suppose I must stop here. Remembrance makes me grit my teeth, and my jaw aches from it. The pain is often, James, unlike your little scar, so little that it could have been a love tap.

 

**twelve.**

[A spiral staircase in the Lighthouse, in Glasgow.]

Dear James,

Do you remember my story, the one about rats on my grandmother’s island? On the streets, I saw a woman who looked like my abuela, and I am wondering now that, because we have had our confrontation, perhaps the world will be eaten by you and I.

 

**thirteen**

[The Lighthouse again, but it is now an exterior view of the jutting tower.]

Dear James,

Sorry about the last postcard’s lack of coherency, my dear. Truthfully, I was reeling from a slight injury. This business will always have its downs, despite the fact that I spend eighty percent of the time behind a computer screen.

You don’t have to worry -- he’s dead. My business here is done.

Tomorrow, Glencoe.

 

**fourteen.**

[A postcard of the Scottish highlands, just shadows and rising hills.]

Dear James,

Skyfall is a piteous ruin. I’m still waiting for you.

But I see that you’re on your way. Your side-trips regarding my situation in Glasgow has been my source of entertainment during the interim. Explosions, guns, and all the general excitement.

 

**fifteen.**

[The fifteenth postcard is a photograph of Traitors’ Gate, which surrounds the Tower of London.]

Dear James,

I’m using an old postcard, seeing as I don’t have any new ones in hand, at the moment. This’ll have to do.

All I shall say is this: we’re still two rats out in this world. You’re a coward, my dear, because you ran, and nothing is resolved, except maybe reciprocation, for you finally have your scar. I love the way you trembled when I ran the edge of the blade to your back. Thank you for calling out my name like that. It sounded wonderful.

 

**sixteen.**

[The sixteenth postcard is a hammer-shaped crane perched upon a river. The Finnieston Crane -- Glasgow.]

Dear James,

Even face to face, I realise that you did not say one word about her. Time goes on for you, doesn’t it? You have your new M and your Q and your Moneypenny. You fit into this new arrangement like you’ve never been a part of the old order, and maybe you don’t remember it any longer.

I shall make you remember, even if it reduces me to merely a reminder. Some things are important, James. Think of the past. I will mark you whenever you start to forget.

 

**seventeen.**

[It’s a personally-made postcard, the picture being a snapshot of a file. The file is a date, the words _Vesper Lynd, Section S_ , and under that _Agent made contact with 007 en route to Montenegro._ This postcard comes months after the last one.]

Dear James,

Happy Anniversary.

 

**eighteen.**

[The River Thames, because it always returns to England.]

Dear James,

I keep waiting for this debacle to be resolved. We have matching scars and empires backing us or under us, but in the end, it dwindles down to postcards, chance encounters, one grave, and bluffing (and I hear you play a mean game of poker, my dear).

I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, James. You or me or the world.

 

**nineteen.**

[A hotel postcard, declaring the hotel’s name and address, _Room 007_ emblazoned on the top.]

Dear James,

I touch the side of my face, and it feels raw, my dear, like burning.

There is no M, James, and you will not come to me and finish this charade. It is infuriatingly boring. So this is your cue.

 

**twenty.**

[This is not a postcard, not really. This is a letter composed in the back of Raoul Silva’s head before James Bond shoots a bullet into his heart.]

Dear James,

Thank you.

 

 

 

 

 

_Is there anything in the world sadder_

_than a train standing in the rain?_

 

\--Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions III.

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Pablo Neruda's 'Still Another Day: I.'
> 
> mi reina, mi mujer, mi extensión, geografía  
> beso de barro, cítara que cubren los carbones  
> tú, vestidura de mi porfiado canto  
>    
> is
> 
> my queen, my woman, my vastness, my geography  
> kiss of mud, the carbon-coated zither  
> you, vestment of my persistent song 
> 
> Which actually ends, fittingly:
> 
> today you are reborn again and with the sky’s  
> black water confuse me and compel me:  
> I must renew my bones in your kingdom,  
> I must still uncloud my earthly duties.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Remains Are Our Memories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/622483) by [beeminionjeran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeminionjeran/pseuds/beeminionjeran)




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